Ive Passed My Time
You might as well have sent him off to a dog kennel, snapped Mrs. Helen Underwood, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Oh yes, pay the money and be free as a bird, do what you want, she added, giving me that familiar look over her spectacles.
My wife, Jane, pursed her lips in annoyance and jerked at the zip on her suitcase, struggling with it. Pointlessit was stuck, just like the tune Mrs. Underwood would hum every time we talked about going away.
Mum, thats enough, I tried to soothe her. Bens not being abandonedhes going to the countryside, to Janes parents. Fresh air, a veg patch, a paddling pool, and proper milk every morning. Its perfect for him at his age.
Thats not a holidaythats exile! Mrs. Underwood exclaimed, throwing her hands up. Hes barely three! He needs his parents right now! And you two just want to go flouncing off to Londongallivanting around museums! Doesnt your son deserve a bit of culture too?
Jane finally wrestled the zip closed, stood up straight, and fixed Mrs. Underwood with a dark stare.
Thats not what he needs right now, Jane said icily. What he needs is his routine, naps, and a potty handynot a nine-hour drive with traffic jams, a time zone shift, and endless walking around a city. And whens the last time you, Mrs. Underwood, actually took your grandson for a walk in the park?
Ive done my share, thank you very much! Mrs. Underwood huffed, sticking her nose in the air. I took you everywhere with me! I survived just fine! Some people only ever think about themselves. We should put others first.
Exactly! Jane nearly shouted. Other peoplelike those poor souls on the plane listening to a three-year-old screech for hours. Or those who turn up for a quiet day at a museum, not for Im tired, Im thirsty, I need a wee, my legs ache, can we go home yet. A holiday with a three-year-old is NOT a holiday, Mrs. Underwood. Its torture. For Ben as much as for us.
Mrs. Underwood pursed her lips and turned away.
Fine then. Played at being parents: soon as its inconvenient, offload him. Why not just admit you dont want him around anymore? If you cared, youd make it work.
Jane closed her eyes, silently counting to a hundred to calm herself. If Mrs. Underwood had lived through our last getaway with Ben, maybe shed have bitten her tongue. But how would she know? She hardly ever helped out.
Oh, but we remembered. That last trip gave Jane a twitch in her left eye for a month.
It was last summer. Naively, we thought wed pop down to the countryside for the weekendonly a hundred miles, friends waiting, barbecue already marinating, their daughter, a play area and an orchardwhat could go wrong?
Everything, as it turned out.
First, the car wouldnt start. And our friends were waiting. No choice but to hunt for train tickets at the last minute.
Then the weather decided to roast us alivenearly 35 degrees. The trains air con was broken, the windows barely opened, and we were crammed in like sardines. Stuffy, stifling, heaving.
Ben lasted all of ten minutes. Then the whining began. Then cries of Im bored! and Its hot! and after that, he started sprinting up and down the carriage.
Let me go! he shrieked, arching out of my arms. I want to go over there!
Benny, love, you cant, I said, red-faced, desperately holding onto my wriggling son while passengers started to glare our way.
I dont want to sit! Aaaagh!
He screamed at the top of his lungs, louder than the clattering tracks. The passengers first turned with sympathy, then with irritation, then with outright hatred. A woman in white made a snide remark. Ben, in his outrage, swung a juice pouch and sprayed us and the woman both.
Chaos ensued. The woman was ranting, Ben was bawling for his juice, Jane was close to tears apologising and trying to offer cash as compensation, and I was gritting my teeth just trying to hang on.
Ninety minutes of hell.
By the time we collapsed onto the platform, any idea of rest had evaporated. Ben, stressed to bits, skipped his nap, threw tantrums all afternoon, and nearly knocked over the barbecue. Going home was no improvement either.
And that was just an hour and a half’s journey. And now Mrs. Underwood wanted him tramping around on tours with us all week in London? Not a chance.
You just dont know how to bring up a child! Mrs. Underwood would always retort whenever Jane tried to reason with her.
The truth was, Mrs. Underwood was a textbook grandmother. She visited once a fortnight, brought bananas or chocolate (to which Ben had an allergy Id explained a hundred times), fussed over him for about twenty minutes, took a photo for Facebook, and left.
And whats it to you, Mrs. Underwood, who Ben stays with, anyway? Jane once asked in the middle of one of these rows. Its not like its you.
Dont look at me, Ive done my bit. Hes your boy. Unless its the hospital or work, dont expect me. You just treat him like a stray cat you dont know what to do with.
It was all just manageable, but over time these squabbles shredded the nerves. Mrs. Underwood was convinced she was right and wouldnt listen to reason.
Well, life teaches us all.
Four years crept by. Ben turned seven: reasonable, articulate, at school, doing afterschool clubs.
Mrs. Underwoods world also changed. She was widowed. Her flat, once echoing with her late husbands TV and muttering, was now silent. Out of loneliness or pridemaybe to prove herselfshe announced a dramatic change of heart.
Bring the boy to me, she said magnanimously. Hes grown up now. We can understand each other.
Are you sure? Jane asked warily. Bens energetic, needs a lot of attention, or at least a computer.
Oh dont you start! Ill cope. I raised you! What, you think I cant look after my own grandson? Well read books, play board games, we dont need gadgets. Bring him! she declared.
We crossed our fingers and delivered Ben. For two whole weeks. We sneaked off to a holiday park, just for the weekendJane suspected we wouldnt get longer.
And she was right.
Mrs. Underwood had pictured a peaceful scene: her clean, well-behaved grandson quietly reading an animal book while she knitted and made wise remarks. Then theyd eat soup before strolling hand in hand through the park.
The illusion lasted half an hour after we left.
Gran, Im bored! Ben declared. Have you got a tablet?
No, I havent, she replied, taken aback.
Lets play zombie apocalypse! said Ben. You can be the zombie, and Ill be the survivor!
What on earth? Mrs. Underwood was stumped. How about drawing? I got you a colouring book.
Im too old for that! Ben started running laps round the sofa. Come on, Gran! Play with me! Look what I can do! Look! Look! Youre not looking!
He didnt stay still for an instantpretending to be an aeroplane, clattering saucepan lids, trying to rope her into one bizarre game after another. Books by Dickens, an ancient Lego setnothing interested him. What he wanted was an audience, a playmate, and a one-man entertainment crew all rolled into one. Every three minutes: Gran, why?, Gran, lets!, Gran, look!
Mrs. Underwood, so used to her quiet, orderly days, by lunchtime felt like shed unloaded a lorry of coal.
Which was nothing compared to what was coming. At lunch, she proudly served up homemade beef stewsomething shed never cook for herself, specially done for Ben.
He examined his bowl as if it held garbage.
Im not eating this, he declared.
Whats wrong with it? she asked, shocked.
Its got onions in it. I hate onions.
Nonsense! she snapped. Onions are good for you! Eat up, stop being fussy!
Im not eating it!
So what will you eat then?
Pasta. With cheese. And a sausagecut it up like an octopus.
Mrs. Underwood raised her eyebrows. Shed never done that, and wasnt about to start.
This isnt a restaurant! she retorted.
Ben just shrugged and disappeared to build a den out of cushions and chairs.
By the evening Mrs. Underwoods blood pressure was all over the place. She couldnt even lie downBen immediately bounced on her like a trampoline yelling Get up, the invaders are attacking! She couldnt watch the news; Ben would demand cartoons because its boring, then come alive again, tearing round the flat like a whirlwind.
Meanwhile, Jane and I were enjoying a blissful evening at the lodge, watching the sun set and listening to the faint sizzle of the barbecue.
Listen to that silence, Jane sighed contentedly, closing her eyes. I can hardly believe it. Maybe we were too hard on your mum.
Just then, my phone rang.
Hello? Mum?
Come and get him! Now! Mrs. Underwood yelled so loudly we both jumped. Take him! This instant!
Mum, whats happened? Is everything alright?
Its a nightmare! Hes destroyed my flat! Wont eat proper food! He jumps on me like a horse! My hearts going, I swear it! If youre not here in an hour, Im ringing the ambulance and the police! Both of us, out! I cant take it anymore! I mean it!
The line went dead.
Jane silently set down her glass, wine unfinished, kebabs half-cooked.
Come on, I said grimly. Holidays over.
We drove in silence, stung to tears by the unfairness. Mrs. Underwood had insisted, and now was throwing a wobbly.
Wed barely touched the buzzer when the door flew open. Mrs. Underwood stood there, pale as a ghost, reeking of rescue remedy, looking as though shed been through a war.
Ben came running out, bright and bouncy.
Thank heavens, Mrs. Underwood exhaled, practically pushing him into our arms. Take him! Never again! What have you raised? Hes a monster! Onions not right, always bored, bouncing on me like a lunatic!
Hes just a child, Mum, I replied flatly, taking Bens hand. A lively, healthy child. We warned you. You said youd manage.
I thought hed be normal! He needs a doctor! she flared, clutching her chest. Go! I need to lie down, or Ill drop dead.
Later, as we packed Ben into his car seat, he snuggled up and sleepily mumbled,
Mum, when can we go to Granny Margarets and Grandpa Williams again?
Soon, son, very soon, Jane answered softly.
Good, he murmured, dropping off, cos Gran Helens strange. Always shouting and cant play, and her foods horrible.
After that evening, Mrs. Underwood stopped bringing up family trips and stopped complaining about us not leaving Ben with her. Now when we went on holiday, she simply wished us a pleasant trip.
Ben spent every school break at Janes parents. There, he dug for worms with granddad, played soldiers, and slurped up Grannys soupwithout onions, because Granny Margaret always remembered his taste.
Our relations with Mrs. Underwood didnt exactly improve, but we could live with that. At least no one lectured us about parenting anymore. And Mrs. Underwood was left alone, with her righteousnessand her unopened encyclopaedias, gathering dust on the shelves.
